


However Improbable

by ErtheChilde



Series: The Shortest Life [10]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Mystery, Saving the World, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3501590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErtheChilde/pseuds/ErtheChilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accidental landing in nineteenth century London puts the Doctor and Rose on the trail of something or someone that is altering reality. As the lines between fiction and fact grow ever more blurred, they end up investigating a series of bizarre murders with an old friend of the Doctor's - murder that might just be linked to whatever is causing reality to splinter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
>    
>  This story utilizes characters, situations and premises that are copyright the BBC. No infringement on their respective copyrights pertaining to episodes, novelizations, comics or short stories is intended by the author in any way, shape or form. This fan oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All fiction, plot and Original Characters with the exception of those introduced in the books and graphic novels, are the sole creation of ErtheChilde and using them without permission is considered rude, in bad-taste and will reflect seriously on your credibility as a writer. A short drop and a sudden stop may be in order if you are found plagiarizing.  
>    
>  Warning:  
>    
>  Spoilers: If it existed in any form of Doctor Who canon, whether television, novelization, or graphic novel, it’s probably going to be mentioned here. For this particular fic, anything up to and including The Unquiet Dead.  
>    
>  Canadian Writing British: As a Canadian, I am not all-knowing when it comes to British idioms, sayings or sang. I write what sounds right to my ears and when in doubt, I look things up on the Internet. So I might not always get it right. If I’m way off about something please drop me a line and I’ll correct it.  
>    
> 
> 
> **AN** : As decided by the poll: an adventure in nineteenth century London! Sorry it took so long to put up, I’ve had one of those weeks :P
> 
> **AN2:** This is not a crossover, although it might seem like one at times. The secondary characters mentioned in this story who might be rather recognizable would lead you to believe that it is a crossover, however, as they have made appearances in various prose adventures with the Seventh Doctor and Iris Wildthyme and have been spoken about familiar by the Doctor in several incarnations, obviously those characters are part of the Whoniverse. Also, the _other_ characters that pop up and would make you think this is a crossover…well, they’re all part of the story, aren’t they? So nope…no crossovers here :P

**_However Improbable  
by ErtheChilde_ **

_‘Always search for truth. My truth is in the stars and yours is here.’_

**ONE**

‘Funny how much the Sun looks exactly like London,’ Rose remarked dryly from the front door, one hand on her hip and the other around the solar helmet she had been about to put on. 

The Doctor held back a groan.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he implored, trudging away from the center console to join her in the doorway.

Instead of the stellar colony on Sol that he had been trying to bring them to, he and Rose were now staring out at the familiar vista of London’s South Bank. Albeit, a significantly less modernize and less developed version than the one from Rose’s own time, but recognizable all the same.

In the distance, Westminster Bridge was decidedly less crowded than it was on any given day in the twenty-first century, and the smell of car exhaust was noticeably absent from the air. Instead, the smell of manure and sewage reigned, and in the air echoed with the sounds of horse traffic and steam boats on the river.

‘Industrial era,’ the Doctor determined. ‘Pre-automotive or just at the beginning, judging from the number of carriages.’

He glanced down at Rose, but saw she had slipped back into the TARDIS and was laying the solar helmet on the jumpseat. She leaned over the console and frowned at the viewscreen, which he had configured to display spatio-temporal locations in English during one of their first trips together.

‘August 6, 1889,’ Rose read, and shot him a teasing grin. ‘Think I’m a bit underdressed for it?’

‘Nah – still naught but a hop, skip and a jump away from where I was aiming. Give us a mo and I’ll have it sorted.’

‘You say,’ Rose accused lightly as he went to check the coordinates he’d entered in a long-standing, probably futile attempt to figure out why he hadn’t landed where he meant to. ‘Bit random, isn’t it? What’s so special about today that the TARDIS brought us here?’

The Doctor shot her an unimpressed look.

Early into their travels together, Rose had developed the frankly absurd – yet worryingly plausible – notion that the TARDIS was the true cruise director of their adventures, with the Doctor acting as mere co-pilot. He had been trying fruitlessly to disabuse her of the idea, but on occasions such as this one, it wasn’t exactly an easy feat. In fact, it was times like these when his landing plans came out wrong that she liked to joke that he’d been overruled by the real boss.

‘Not a thing I can think of,’ the Doctor replied, eyes flitting over the flight coordinates and equations, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. ‘Well, except maybe the grand opening of the Savoy, but that’s not exactly important…’

‘The Savoy?’ Rose repeated. ‘Like…? _The_ Savoy? As in, the poshest hotel in all of London?’

‘S’ppose so.’

‘Right…we’re staying.’

The Doctor glanced up at Rose, surprised at the firmness in her tone. ‘What? Why?’

‘Cos I want to crash the opening,’ she explained with a grin.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not exactly the most exciting thing to gatecrash, is it? Not compared to asbestos robots…’

‘Oh, come on,’ Rose pleaded. ‘The robots and the mad scientist will keep, won’t they? Besides, I haven’t had a chance to dress up in ages –’

‘Women didn’t even start dining at the Savoy until 1890,’ he pointed out.

‘ – and Mum’ll flip once I get home and tell her,’ Rose went on, obviously not hearing him. ‘Oh, especially if we went to Afternoon Tea!’

‘No – not happening,’ the Doctor argued. ‘That’s worse than feeding ducks if you’re looking for tedious.’

‘I’ll bet they’ll have finger sandwiches and fancy cakes and jams,’ she wheedled. 

‘If I wanted finger sandwiches and fancy cakes – which I don’t, by the way, cos they always leave me hungry – I’d visit Versailles and Marie-Antoinette before the Revolution,’ the Doctor grumbled. ‘And jam just gets everywhere. Three days after eating it, you find you’ve spilled a bit on your favorite jumper and every time you put your elbows down you feel it sticking –’

‘Alright,’ Rose cut him off with a sigh. ‘We won’t go. Was a stupid idea anyhow. It’s fine.’

Which, of course, meant it wasn’t.

The Doctor fixed Rose with a measuring look, trying to determine what had put her in this particular mood. It wasn’t just the last trip home – not completely, at least. She had taken everything that happened with Quevvils remarkably in stride. Better than he had, even. 

The entire matter had left a bad taste in his mouth, and was part of the reason he had been so eager to leave right after sorting it all out. The memory of being forced to control Rose like a puppet had dredged up bitter memories, memories of another life and another spirited blond girl whose fate he had controlled, albeit not in the same literal sense he had been forced to with Rose.

_‘You always know! You just can’t be bothered to tell anyone! It’s like it’s all some kind of a game and only you know the rules!’_

He clamped down hard on that memory, banishing Ace and her justified anger back into the lock-box of his memories. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Rose, which meant making an effort not to figure out what was on her mind.

Her disposition could have been influenced by yet another abrupt departure from her mother, but he somehow doubted that. If she had really been that worried about Jackie, she wouldn’t have let him convince her to leave the Estate. 

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what it was really about, but the tense set of her shoulders and way she was hugging her elbows close to her body suggested she wasn’t in the mood to open up. Which was fine, as he wasn’t in the mood for another one of the emotional conversations she always managed to trap him in.

Still, the situation bothered him.

It was rare for Rose to express interest in a particular destination or time. She usually left it up to him, despite his track record of botched landings. He had a suspicion that part of it was due to some deeply ingrained self-consciousness that he might deride her destination choices.

Rather like he just had.

_And…there’s the guilt_ , he thought with a wince. _Ah, well, nothing for it then…_

‘Worse things than Afternoon Tea,’ he conceded heavily. ‘And the French couldn’t make a good cuppa if their lives depended on it.’

Rose’s head whipped up, eyes wide. ‘Really?’

‘Just don’t expect me to dress up.’

‘Never do!’ she laughed, hurtling forward to squeeze him in a brief hug before heading out of the console room. She paused in front of the hallway, and grinned back at him. ‘And who knows? The TARDIS wouldn’t just bring us here for a fancy meal – maybe there’s a murder or something going on?’

‘Oi! Don’t go trying to placate me!’

Her laughter echoed as she disappeared, and the Doctor shook his head at her retreating form.

‘If they could see the Oncoming Storm now,’ he grumbled to himself. ‘Bending over backwards just to get a pretty girl to smile. It’s disgraceful, is what it is.’ He glared up at the ceiling. ‘Just so’s you know, I blame you for all this. Never would’ve turned into a sodding activities director if you hadn’t brought us to London in the first place.’

The TARDIS hummed back at him in smug reproach; they both knew he wouldn’t have changed meeting Rose Tyler for almost anything in the world.

‘Go on thinking that. Now, why’d you go and decide this was a better idea than asbestos robots and the sun?’ he went on. ‘Rose’s right – can’t just be cos you figured she needed a pick me up…’

· ΘΣ ·

‘No more chips for me,’ Rose announced dramatically when she returned. ‘If we keep landing in the eighteen hundreds, I’m gonna need a smaller waistline. Didn’t Victorian women breathe?’

She paused in the doorway to show off the silk and lace walking dress suit the TARDIS had led her to in the wardrobe. It had a high neckline with ruffles that itched a bit where she wasn’t used to feeling fabric, and black ribbon at her collar, elbows and waistline. The skirt was floor-length, but luckily flared out enough to give her room to walk without showing off the trainers she was wearing underneath.

Tea or not, she was sure the day would involve running at some point, and she had not intention of breaking an ankle in the boots that came with the dress.

‘Your species would’ve died out if they couldn’t breathe,’ the Doctor answered, scowling at something on the the view screen. ‘Masters of thoracic breathing – or, well, mistresses I suppose. Don’t reckon they did much heavy lifting, so it didn’t matter much to them. The TARDIS is registering aberrations in the quantum foam.’

Rose blinked at the subject change. ‘Er, okay.’

‘Means there’s something wrong with reality,’ the Doctor amended, glancing up finally. His expression changed from a scowl to something like surprise and…discomfort? ‘That what you’re wearing?’ 

‘S’not too much, is it?’ she asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

‘Course not,’ he said quickly, looking away again. He started rifling through his coat, murmuring something under his breath that she didn’t quite catch. From its cadence, though she recognize his native tongue.

‘You sure?’ she prompted.

‘Uh-huh,’ he answered, distracted as he finally located and pulled out his sonic. His eyes cut back to her quickly. ‘Bit bright, though.’

Both the dress and the fancy hat it came with were a golden, almost burnt orange colour that had appealed to her because it seemed cheerful; something about the nineteenth century always struck her as dreary and dirty. Exactly the opposite of how she wanted to feel while they were sitting in one of the poshest hotels _ever_ , but if the Doctor thought it wasn’t right…

‘Should I change then?’

‘Nah, no time,’ he said, programming something into the sonic before putting it back in his jacket. Then he offered her a tight grin, and just as suddenly as it had started, the weird disquiet was over. ‘Quantum foam, remember?’

‘Yeah, still don’t know what that means,’ Rose told him.

‘Basically has to do with the foundations of the universe,’ the Doctor explained as he motioned for her to head for the door. ‘Had the TARDIS do a bit of a scan while you were getting kitted out – there’s something making minor adjustments and additions to those foundations.’

‘Dangerous?’

‘Dunno. Might just be some minor fallout from the Time War, in which case it’s just a matter of letting the dust settle,’ he said, and she could sense the effort he put in to making that sound off-hand. 

‘And if that’s not it?’

‘Well, then we know why the TARDIS decided this was a better way to spend our time than exploring the surface of the sun.’

He started to offer her his hand, and then held back.

‘Actually, best play this carefully,’ he mused. ‘Remember when we were in Southampton, what I said about Victorian morals?’

‘Vaguely,’ she replied, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yeah, well, not to be taken lightly. Even the lower classes don’t look too kindly on people that don’t conform to their ideals, and since you’ve decided to stroll about playing the proper English socialite…’

‘Meaning?’ 

‘Meaning there’ll be questions as to why a young woman like you is wandering around in my company,’ he explained. ‘Suppose if anyone asks we can say I’m your tutor, or legal guardian. Those are a few of the socially acceptable reason for a man and a woman to be wandering around together, unless they’re married or related – and even this backwards time, no one’s gonna believe you’re my sister. Or worse, a daughter.’

‘I wouldn’t want them to,’ Rose made a face. The very idea disturbed her on an almost cellular level.

‘Me neither, seeing as how it’d mean I’d have to pretend I was married to your mother at some point.’

‘You’re asking for another smack, you are!’

‘The point is, on the off chance we start attracting attention, we need a story, and you always complain when I make something up on the spot.’

‘Yeah, but you don’t just make stuff up on the spot, you just go along with what people assume!’

‘And? What’s wrong with that?’

‘Only that I always get mistaken for a servant or a prostitute or something,’ Rose shot back. ‘You never bother correcting it.’

‘Works out well, though. Considering I’m the one they’re usually trying to kill. They ignore you entirely, so you can come save me, so I can save the day,’ he smirked. ‘That’s a functional routine, right there.’

‘I’m trying to figure out how you stayed alive before you met me,’ Rose said, pretending to sigh heavily. ‘All I can figure is you’ve got a tremendous horseshoe up your ar –’

‘Now _that_ language is definitely not befitting of your station, madam,’ the Doctor lectured, though his eyes sparkled with humour. ‘Good thing no one’s about to hear it, or they’d question your breeding.’

‘They can go right ahead, I’ll tell ‘em I’ve been hanging around with my tutor too long and he’s taught me bad habits,’ she shot back. 

‘Didn’t need to teach you anything,’ he snorted and offered her his arm. At her raised eyebrow, he explained, ‘Hand-holding in public’s a bit of a faux pas. Even married couples didn’t do it, even if they were that rare breed of happily married duo that actually liked each other.’

‘Victorian people were weird,’ Rose decided, taking his arm and letting him lead her from the TARDIS.

‘Apply that thought to the human race in general, and you get how I feel all the time,’ he told her as he turned to lock the door.

‘Doesn’t stop you from exploring the universe, though.’

‘Nah – it’s the weirdest cultures that are the most interesting.’

‘Or the ones most likely to eat you,’ Rose said sagely.

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** This chapter was soooo much fun to write, if only for all the tongue-in-cheek references and double meanings. Also, just an additional disclaimer, any of the extra-fandom characters mentioned in this chapter don’t belong to me, but to the author who created them. Who you should easily recognize when you realize who they are.

**_However Improbable  
by ErtheChilde_ **

_‘Always search for truth. My truth is in the stars and yours is here.’_

**TWO**

‘So how do we know what we’re looking for?’ Rose asked as they wandered in the general direction of Westminster. ‘You gonna do a scan for alien tech, or something?’

‘In the middle of the afternoon, in Victorian London? Don’t be stupid – all we need to do is find a few broadsheets,’ the Doctor responded matter-of-factly. ‘Always bound to be something sensationalistic in them, and I’ll be able to tell right off whether it has anything to do with what we’re looking for or if it’s just your garden variety ape melodrama.’  

He waited for the inevitable complaint about the insult, but Rose wasn’t even listening.

‘Did you see that?’ Rose asked, craning her neck around as they continued on. ‘I swear that bloke looked exactly like Johnny Depp.’

The Doctor sighed. ‘And the human attention span rears its ugly head…’

‘Oi!’ she smacked his shoulder. ‘I’m serious though. He looked exactly like him, only, you know, before he went all pirate-y.’

The Doctor offered her a painfully tolerant look. ‘Did he look like he was from your time?’

‘No,’ Rose said, trying to look around again but frowning when it seemed the object of her attention had long since disappeared.

‘Then it’s just a coincidence. Happens enough even in your time. Or possibly it’s an ancestor,’ the Doctor dismissed. 

‘I guess…bit weird, though,’ Rose said. ‘I think all your talk of reality going mad is messing with my imagination. Cos I could’ve sworn that bloke was him.’

‘Spatial genetic multiplicity accounts for doubles across generations and time,’ the Doctor shrugged. ‘Haven’t you ever heard that everyone in the world has a doppelganger? Or three?’

‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Rose mused, looking thoughtful. A moment later she beamed up at him, squeezing here arm around his. ‘Does that mean you’ve got a double too? How weird would that be, running into someone who looks like you!’

‘Oi, don’t laugh, it’s actually happened! Though, in every case it really _was_ me running into myself and not just a double.’

‘Well, that’s no fun,’ Rose pointed out. ‘If you run into someone who looks like you, the whole point is you want to see how different you are. What they’ve done different with their lives. There was one girl who came into Henrik’s once, looked exactly like me – only she was studying English Lit at uni and actually had the money to spend there.’

Rose’s expression clouded for a moment, the way it usually did when she was thinking about her perceived educational and socioeconomic failings. And, as he’d gotten into the habit of at such times, the Doctor was quick to distract her.

‘We travel through time and space and see things that girl could probably never imagine – why would you want to be anyone else?’

‘Suppose it’s sort of a human thing, I guess – unless, I dunno, do Time Lords ever want to be someone else?’

‘Probably not – they all thought they were brilliant as they were,’ he replied darkly. ‘Me though, I wouldn’t mind being John Lennon. Without the getting shot in the back part.’

Rose guffawed. ‘Get out!’

‘I’m serious! Smart man, brilliant musician – been told I look a bit like him, only with less hair. And I love playing music. Was once in a band with…’ he trailed off, and then cleared his throat, slamming the door on the memories of long ago before they could b fully articulated. ‘Anyhow, what about you?’

She gave him a sideways look, like she had noticed the abrupt subject change, but thankfully let it go.

‘When I was a kid, I always wanted to be a princess or someone posh,’ Rose mused. ‘Mum would watch these period dramas, and I’d be dying to wear the pretty dresses.’

‘You’re wearing a pretty dress now,’ he pointed out before he could stop himself. 

He didn’t have a chance to wince before he was rewarded with a smile and the slightest darkening of her cheeks.

She looked like the skies of Gallifrey at dawn, and coupled with her smile – 

Rassilon, his eighth self was showing! He’d thought that version of him had been completely tamped down beneath years of mental and emotional scarring, but considering some of the thoughts he had been having recently…!

‘Yeah, but now I don’t want to be a princess anymore,’ Rose laughed, distracting him from his thoughts. ‘You’ve ruined me, I’ll have you know. Princesses are boring, always having to get rescued. I’d want to be the one doing the rescuing. Like Indiana Jones or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Or I’d want to be brilliant, like Sherlock Holmes. Only, you know, a girl.’ The smile became a teasing grin. ‘Dunno if I’d do as well as you did if that suddenly changed.’

‘You said we weren’t going to talk about that,’ the Doctor groused.

She mimed zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key.

‘Yeah, cos that’ll stop you,’ he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

Rose dissolved into laughter then, earning a few disapproving glances from passersby, but the Doctor didn’t care. His companion was happy, and that was all that mattered.

Except…

He frowned, his brain taking a moment to catch up with what his eyes had just seen, and he paused in their strolling to actually turn around and confirm what he thought he had imagined.

_Nope, not my imagination_ , he thought, eyeing the somber, looming townhouse on the corner of the street. 

It looked like every other hard-worn terraced house in the area, dark bricked and cramped together, with grimy windows that ensured the privacy of the occupants within. In fact, it could have easily been any other office or place of business really, if it weren’t for the innocuous looking wooden sign over the door.

_Scrooge & Cratchit_.

‘Someone’s being anachronistic as well as ironic,’ he remarked when Rose finally noticed his silence, and nodded in the direction of the sign.

She frowned, not seeing it immediately, but when she did her expression changed to incredulity. ‘Big Dickens fan, you think?’

‘I certainly hope so,’ he answered.

Either the owner had good taste in literature, or was attempting to be funny. Considering the Victorians didn’t generally have much in the way of a sense of humour, and his lingering concerns over the odd reality quotient readings, it was obvious what had to be done.

‘Come on,’ he said, guiding Rose in the direction of the counting house. 

‘I know you’re perpetually broke, Doctor, but I think going to a moneylender’s a bit much,’ she teased.

‘Got to make sure I’ve got the collateral for when we go to tea,’ he shot back as they made their way towards the counting house and entered.

The interior of the office was warm and well-kept, which was rather at odds with any description from the books. It wasn’t just that it was warm for August, but that care had been taken to make this office an inviting one. The floors were sanded and polished, and the walls decorated with various still-life paintings. There was even a small black divan in the entrance hall.

That in itself caused him to relax a bit, taking it as an indication that it really was just the fanciful humour of a fellow Dickens fan.

‘Good afternoon – sir, madam,’ a short, bow-legged man seemed to materialize in front of them, inclining his head in greeting. He was middle-aged, with a genuine smile despite the stuffiness of the room. ‘How may I help you? Or do you have an appointment?’

‘Nope,’ the Doctor said cheerfully, and then jokingly added, ‘Just wondering if Mr. Scrooge is about.’

The young man’s smile faded, and genuine sadness replaced it.

‘I’m afraid Mr Scrooge hasn’t worked in this place for near twenty years.’

‘Wait – what?’ Rose interjected, eyes wide.

‘I take it you were misled by the sign,’ the man sighed, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been after father to take it down, but he always refuses…especially with Uncle Ebenezer passing on to his reward this month. One hundred and three years to the day, bless him.’

The Doctor found himself momentarily at a loss for words, a feat which was rare enough that Rose was staring at him now in surprise.

The man appeared to notice their distress, and asked kindly, ‘I am quite sorry to be the one to tell you this. Were you a friend of his? He had many friends…’

The Doctor cleared his throat, deciding that acting like a stunned deer was not useful in the least.

‘Not a friend, exactly, more of a distant admirer of his philanthropy,’ the Doctor lied, hazarding a guess at what the last years of this supposed Scrooge person’s life had been like. ‘You said your father – that would be Mr Robert Cratchit, then?’ 

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He still works here?’

‘Much as I tell him he shouldn’t, sir, he is getting on in years,’ the man said with a light chuckle. ‘My brother Peter and I manage most of the work these days, but he still keeps his office.’

‘Can I speak to him, then?’

‘Sir, I assure you, if you are looking for trustworthiness and experience to handle your business, I can assure you that our clerks are more than capable,’ the young man said quickly. ‘And if none of them are to your satisfaction, Peter or myself would be more than happy to –’

‘Oh, relax, I’m not here for a lone,’ the Doctor scowled. ‘But I need to speak to someone about this place. Someone who knows the history of the building and such.’

The man hesitated. ‘Well, my father isn’t…with anyone right now. If you would like to – ?’

‘Fantastic,’ the Doctor cut him off.

‘Yes…well…if you’ll give me a moment,’ the flustered man said and bowed away. ‘I’ll ask if he will see you. Er…who am I to say is calling?’

‘The Doctor and Rose Tyler,’ the Doctor replied, and then something occurred to him. ‘Oh, by the way – what’s your name, then?’

‘Timothy, sir. Timothy Cratchit.’

There was a spell of silence.

Rose was staring at the space that had just been occupied by the anxious man, and then turned to stare at the Doctor questioningly.

‘Was that…?’

‘Yep.’

‘And he says his uncle was…’

‘Seems so.’

‘And we’re about to meet…’

‘Yep.’

She shook her head slowly, like she her entire world had just shifted. ‘Alright then.’

· ΘΣ ·

They were led into a small office, where their eyes were immediately drawn to an impressive and somewhat gaudy painting of a positively ancient Victorian gentleman looking out at them sternly. He was so old that it took Rose a few seconds to recognize the face.

It was a perfect likeness of a much older Patrick Stewart.

‘Is this that special genetic thing you were talking about?’ Rose asked quietly, staring up at the familiar features.

‘No.’ The hardness in his tone made her glance at him, concerned. ‘This is something else. And it’s not good.’

‘I always thought that was a terrible likeness, myself,’ a voice remarked lightly from the corner of the room, and the Doctor and turned to face its owner. ‘Mr Scrooge was a much more lighthearted individual in the second half of his life.’

Although she had subconsciously been expecting it this time, she still felt her eyes bugging out at the sight of a man who resembled a much older Richard E. Grant.

It seemed whatever was causing fictional characters to appear in the middle of nineteenth century London had a preference for the film version of them rather than the books.

_Guess we should be relieved it wasn’t the Muppet version,_ she thought irreverently and had to labor to keep her face straight at that thought.

The Doctor didn’t seem to be as amused as she was at the entire situation. Indeed, he suddenly looked extremely intent, and without so much as an introduction, he shoved his finger at the portrait. ‘That’s Mr Scrooge, then?’

‘Yes,’ the old man who could only be Bob Cratchit replied. ‘He was one of the founders of this company –’

‘Along with Mr Jacob Marley?’ the Doctor cut him off.

‘Yes –’

‘Good boss was he?’

‘Mr – Mr Scrooge? Well, yes –’

‘But not always, right? Probably not up until a Christmas morning over forty years ago,’ the Doctor interjected.

Mr. Cratchit looked flustered, obviously caught off guard by the Doctor’s manner. ‘I…how did you…?’

‘And you run the business now with your sons, yes? Peter and Tim?’

‘Timothy –’

‘Tiny Tim,’ Rose realized.

Mr Cratchit blinked at her owlishly, like he had forgotten she was there in the wake of the Doctor’s interrogation. ‘We haven’t called him that in years, but –’

‘And your family – your wife’s Emily and you had four other children,’ the Doctor ploughed on, and Rose began to get annoyed with how he didn’t bother letting the poor old man get a sentence finished. ‘Martha, Belinda, Matthew and…Bettina, was it?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Really, sir, I must protest!’ an angry Tim Cratchit came marching into the office, glaring at the Doctor and no longer seeming so cheerful. ‘You suggested to me earlier an interest in the history of the building, but had I known your intent was to interrogate my father –’

‘Doesn’t matter, I’ve heard what I needed,’ the Doctor cut him off, and strode from the room. ‘C’mon, Rose.’

She tried to offer the bewildered Cratchits an apologetic smile as she hurried out after the Doctor, half tempted to call him out for being so obscenely rude. But he was utterly ignorant of her for the moment, stalking distractedly out of the counting house, long strides making it hard to keep up with him, and he was muttering to himself.

‘Clearly resemble actors from movies, but they’ve aged – even died,’ he murmured, thinking out loud. ‘So not the actors themselves, but their likeness… _Carol_ was set in 1843, and it’s 1889 now…obviously no longer fictional, if they were they’d be stuck in a static kind of immortality….no, they’ve become real.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ Rose pointed out. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘Clearly not,’ he answered, sounding irritated. He tended to get moody when he was frustrated by a problem, so she didn’t take it to heart.

Instead she tried to think up anything that might help him. For some reason, sometimes when she said the simplest things it seemed to jog his brain. Time Lords made connections from the oddest things sometimes…

‘So how comes now one’s said anything?’ Rose asked after a bit of aimless wandering. ‘I mean, wouldn’t it be in the records somewhere that there was a real Ebenezer Scrooge? Some kind of interesting fact list or something?’

‘I’d remember that if there was.’

He was scowling, though whether it was at himself or the situation, she wasn’t entirely sure.

‘What if…what if they don’t know?’ she asked after a moment’s thought.

‘Hm?’

‘Maybe it’s like the perception filter? I mean, here you are walking through nineteenth century London looking like a member of the The Smiths –’

‘Oi!’

‘ – but everyone’s mind is just telling them you’re dressed in some kind of waist coat and top hat,’ she concluded. 

He opened his mouth, possibly to shoot down her idea, but then his mouth snapped closed again.

‘Good point,’ he told her warmly, and before she could enjoy the validation, he darted away from her and after a passing mustachioed gentleman.

‘Sorry to bother you, mate – have you got the time?’ she heard him ask as she followed him.

‘It’s no trouble – it’s half past two,’ the man said, briefly consulting a fobwatch from his coat.

‘Cheers,’ the Doctor said, and then asked, ‘By the way, are you familiar with the works of Charles Dickens?’

Rose rolled her eyes. Subtle, the Doctor was not. 

‘Er…yes, of course. But what – ?’

‘So have you noticed there’s a counting house just there that’s called _Scrooge & Cratchit?_ As in Ebenezer and Bob?’

The gentlemen look bemused, possibly because he thought the Doctor was insane, but all the same he glanced over at the building in question.

‘Oh. Well. Fancy that,’ he said mildly.

‘Interesting coincidence, don’t you think?’ the Doctor prompted.

‘Quite,’ the man said dimly, and then cleared his throat. ‘Well then. I shall take my life now. Good day sir. Madam.’

As he was tipping his hat to Rose, she watched a glazed look appear in his eyes. As he wandered away, she had a sudden presentiment that he had just forgotten everything about the exchange.

‘So it is like a perception filter?’ she checked.

‘Well it bloody well looks like it, doesn’t it?’ the Doctor grumbled, glaring at the unsuspecting man’s back. ‘Which means someone is mucking about with matters they shouldn’t be, and if I’d have to hazard a guess, I’d say it was another one of your species –’

‘That’s a bit prejudiced, don’t you think?’ Rose argued, feeling a bit like she was being blamed for something. ‘Could be something else.’

‘Probability points to meddling apes.’

‘Yeah, but as you keep reminding me, we’re barely able to put one foot in front of the other,’ she deadpanned. ‘Last I checked, that’d make changing reality a bit difficult.’ 

He shot her an apologetic glance.

‘Good point,’ he said again, and this time it was more concession than validation. He took a deep breath, like he was trying to force himself to be calm.

‘Go on then – tell me what you think it is,’ Rose urged, knowing that the Doctor was better focussed when he had someone to talk his thoughts through with.

‘Somehow, the fictional characters and settings are interacting with reality as if they’re real,’ he explained. ‘But the rest of reality seems to have a blind spot for them. Which is bad, cos it weakens the quantum foam I was telling you about. All kinds of nasty things could happen – pocket universes or causal parasites. Get enough of those, and all of reality will split apart like a top that’s been washed too much.’

‘As if you’ve ever done laundry,’ she muttered lightly, trying to pretend that what he was telling her didn’t scare her at all.

She was rewarded with a tight smile, though he didn’t banter back. Instead, he continued, ‘We need to find a way to investigate the theory properly to make sure that’s what it actually is, before we try to fix it. But without multiple data sets to compare, just to make sure –’

‘Multiple what?’

He jerked his head back at the counting house. ‘Could be that’s just an isolated incident, in which case it could just be a major Dickens fan suddenly discovered block transfer computations and decided to bring their favorite story to life. Which is an easy fix once we track them down. But we have to be sure – it could be multiple incidents, maybe not just a Dickens fan but a…’

He trailed off, staring into the distance for several seconds, and then his eyes widened. He whirled around to grab her by the shoulders, the beginning of his usual keen grin there.

‘You said something about seeing Johnny Depp?’

‘Er, yeah, like an hour ago –’

‘Maybe you did see him – or, well, a character he played. Something set in the 1800s,’ he declared excitedly. ‘We can investigate that, and if it turns out it’s another fictional character, we’ll have more proof!’

‘Proof of what?’

‘Proof that someone is filling nineteenth century London with facsimiles of celebrities from your time!’

Rose sighed. ‘Suppose that means tea’s off, then?’

‘Sorry.’

He didn’t look very sorry, though, but considering Rose’s smile was fast rivalling his own, that didn’t even matter.

‘S’alright. At least I thought to wear my trainers.’

 

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** And so, after a rather long hiatus due to sudden video game addiction, I endeavour to return to you. Sorry for the wait guys, but hopefully this chapter makes up for it a little. It’s a bit…metafiction-y. Sort of. I just let my inner fiction nerd go nuts on this one ^_^ Also, I think the Doctor would be annoyed with me. I couldn’t stand Dickens! In other news, my latest poll is closed: for those of you who read _The Saltpool_ , it has been decided that Rose will be the unlucky victim of the taint…because I have *plans*!

**_ However Improbable  
_ ** **_by ErtheChilde_ **

_‘Always search for truth. My truth is in the stars and yours is here.’_

**THREE**

‘So where are we looking first?’ Rose asked as they wandered along Dartmouth Street. ‘London might not be as packed these days as in my time, but it’s still pretty hard to find one bloke in a city this big.’

‘It’s just a matter of figuring out what character we’re dealing with,’ the Doctor mused. ‘Hope you know your films better than I do – can’t say I pay much attention to anything made in your time. You lot are so obsessed with car chases and explosions and actors who are naught but pretty faces and empty heads.’

‘Tell me how you really feel, Doctor,’ Rose deadpanned.

‘I am!’ he declared, completely missing her sarcasm. ‘And don’t even get me started on the drivel that gets cooked up in the name of history. Television serials that have more to do with bed hopping than the actual story? I can tell you one thing for sure, if they cut out all the sex and stuck to the way things actually happened, they’d have much better stories.’ 

‘Oh my God, you sound like my Gran!’ Rose giggled.

He didn’t seem to know whether to be offended or not, and so he settled on giving her that stuffy, disapproving Time Lord sniff and changing the subject.

‘If we’re going to track down Johnny Doppleganger, wherever he is, we need to figure out what character he’s meant to be playing. Shouldn’t be too difficult, he can’t have played many roles set in this time period.’

‘Well, there was that one last year – about the bloke who was writing _Peter Pan_?’

‘J. M. Barrie – and no, that would probably have been set in 1903. Too late for us.’

‘Oh. Er…’ she thought for a moment, and then suggested. ‘ _Sleepy Hollow_?’

‘Based in America.’

‘Guess that means _Pirates of the Caribbean_ is out then, too? Shame. Wouldn’t mind running into an Orlando Bloom doppelganger…’

‘Too early. Supposed to happen in the eighteenth century.’

‘Thought you said you didn’t watch films from my time?’

‘I said I didn’t know them well, not that I didn’t watch ‘em,’ he scowled. ‘And the second one is rubbish anyhow. So’s the fourth.’

‘Oi, don’t tell me that, I haven’t seen them yet! They only just announced the second one!’

‘Got all six in the media room when we get back. You’ll see what I mean – now can we get back on task?’

‘Sorry! It’s just, I’m not exactly a movie freak, it’s not like I know every single thing he’s ever been in, and most of the ones I have seen are set closer to my time,’ Rose protested, straining her mind. A memory of sleepover at Shareen’s involving loads of chocolate, secret stashes of beer and a trove of gory movies sprang to mind. ‘Actually…there was that one he did. The one with, er, what’s her name…can’t remember, but it was about Jack the Ripper.’

‘Jack the Ripper?’ the Doctor replied, looking a bit perked up.

‘That it, maybe?’

‘It might well be,’ he agreed, abruptly changing the direction of their wandering. ‘The Whitechapel murder investigations are still ongoing at this time, so it would make sense with the timeline. And for the most part, fictional accounts of the Ripper murders tend to be centered on the people tracking him down.’

‘Like police?’

‘Like police.’

‘Right – but if we’re going to them, we’re going the wrong way. The Met’s on Broadway.’

‘It wasn’t in 1889.’

Rose was confused for a moment, but then remembered several school outings in the city. ‘It’s still at Whitehall!’

‘Until 1890,’ he answered with almost childish glee. ‘You and I are going to visit Great Scotland Yard in its heyday!’

‘Think you’re so clever,’ Rose laughed. ‘Alright, then, if you know so much – why d’you think whoever or whatever’s doing all this is doing it at all?’

‘Got a few ideas,’ the Doctor shrugged.

‘Care to share with the class?’

‘None of them are any good,’ the Doctor admitted. ‘Usually, fiction coming alive, I’d figure the Gods of Ragnarok and the Land of Fiction was involved.’

‘Sorry, the Land of _Fiction?’_

‘Exactly what it sounds like,’ the Doctor answered. ‘An entire pocket universe made up of fictional people and places. Even met a fictional version of myself there.’

‘Forget asbestos robots and the sun, why haven’t we gone there?’ Rose demanded.

The Doctor shrugged. ‘Lots of places ceased to be when the War ended. Haven’t been able to bring myself to go looking for it, to be honest.’

‘Oh,’ Rose was quiet. She decided to change the subject. ‘Alright, then, what about those gods of Rag and Rock?’

‘Ragnarok,’ the Doctor corrected. ‘Not the Norse kind, incidentally. These ones were a bunch of ancient beings from before time itself. Phenomenal creation powers and the attention span of gnats. But I dealt with them centuries ago. Even if they had survived…well, they wouldn’t’ve had the interest to revisit stories that’ve already been told. They were big on imagination and being entertained. The things they brought to life…they only did that as long as it entertained them.’

‘So, what, they’d kill them again when they were bored?’

‘Not so much kill as just abandon their creations.’

‘But…’ she frowned, thinking about Scrooge and Cratchit. ‘But those creations became real, didn’t they? Like, actual people.’

‘Yep.’

‘But that’s horrible!’

‘They didn’t exactly have a sense of morality,’ the Doctor agreed.

When they arrived at Great Scotland Yard, it took them a while to find an officer willing to talk to them. Most were busy ferretting common thieves and cutpurses through the doors and into the giant holding cell where every shade of Victorian villainy and destitute were corralled. Those behind the desk were busy taking complaints and such from various other Londoners.

Finally, she and the Doctor managed to make it to a free sergeant at the end of the row.

‘Good afternoon, I’m Sergeant Godley, how can I help you?’ he asked as he made a note of something in a leger book. He sounded bored and frustrated – and very familiar.

When he looked up at them, Rose realized why.

He was the exact double of Robbie Coltrane. She hadn’t recognized him immediately without the wild hair and beard that he’d become known for in the _Harry Potter_ films, and it had been such a long time since she saw the Jack the Ripper movie that she had forgotten he was in it too. 

‘John Smith, journalist with the _Daily Mail_ just checking in to see if you lot’ve come up with any new information about the Ripper cases,’ the Doctor rattled off, not acknowledging on the doppleganger’s looks despite a subtle crease in his brow.

Godley’s expression turned contemptuous. ‘Never heard of the _Daily Mail_.’

‘Well, it doesn’t exactly exist yet,’ the Doctor replied brightly. ‘But if it did, it should start with a hell of a story, yeah? What better than Jack the Ripper?’

Godley’s expression darkened further. ‘Sir, if you don’t want to be arrested – along with your lady friend – you’ll turn around and walk out of here.’

‘Figured as much,’ the Doctor agreed cheerfully, and then steered Rose toward the exit.

‘Well, that was anticlimactic,’ Rose remarked as they left. ‘Thought we were looking for Johnny Depp?’

‘No point, after seeing the sergeant,’ the Doctor grumbled. ‘Another facsimile of an actor from your time, here in nineteenth century London? Definitely not an isolated incident after all.’

‘So what does that mean for us?’

· ΘΣ ·

‘Now we see if it’s limited to film characters or fictional characters in general,’ the Doctor answered. ‘If it’s just films, it’ll narrow things down. We’ll know what time period whoever is doing this is from. I’m guessing someone from your time, though, give or take twenty-five years.’

‘How’s that? They could come from any time after movies were invented in general,’ Rose pointed out.

‘True – but there are much better works of cinematic genius than either of the ones we’ve encountered so far,’ the Doctor answered. ‘If someone from farther in the future than your time felt like making fiction come to like, they would’ve gone with better examples than yet another adaptation of _A Christmas Carol_ and a pulp fiction adaptation of a comic.’

It hadn’t been until the sergeant introduced himself that the Doctor realized what story they were dealing with. He might not enjoy sitting in front of the idiot box, but he had always had a propensity to read whatever piece of literature he could get his hands on. That included graphic novels, such as _From Hell_. 

If he were a betting man, he would guess the lookalike Rose had seen that morning was meant to be the ill-fated Inspector Frederick Abberline. His story would play out how it was meant, no doubt, and it wasn’t’ something that he and Rose would be able to alter and so he had no intention of tracking the man down.

Instead, they needed to find out how many other incidents of this nature were happening in London and how they had been chosen. As such, he decided to focus first on the literature that epitomized the nineteenth century: Dickens.

He almost clapped his hands in gleeful anticipation.

It was hours before that glee was completely eradicated, replaced with annoyance.

After bringing Rose on an otherwise enjoyable romp through – literally – Dickensian London, he had come up completely empty handed. The nineteenth century had been the author’s playground, yet in every location where the Doctor had thought he was bound to run into one of his favorite author’s creations’, there was nothing to be had.

The Olde Cheshire Cheese Pub, Southwark Cathedral, the George and Vulture…

Besides the aged and inexplicably real cast of _Scrooged_ , there were no indications of Dickens’ other works, whether literary or cinematic.

Which meant that aside from the fact that someone was playing fast and loose with reality, they were also some sort of philistine that had no appreciation or Dickens’ genius. The Doctor was about as angry about one as the other.

‘Now what?’ Rose asked, sounding a bit cross herself; the barman at the George had refused to serve her a pint with her lunch, and so she’d spitefully decide she didn’t feel like eating there and stalked out. 

Sometimes he thought he would never understand female logic. Young or old, they baffled him well and proper. 

‘Now we find out if there have been other _non-_ Dickens related incidents and where,’ the Doctor decided, guiding her back toward Fleet Street where they had started their futile search. ‘Every newspaper publication of importance is sold there, we’re bound to find something odd cropping up in the papers. ‘The more lurid, the more likely to sell. Not exactly responsible journalism just yet, but shouldn’t have too much trouble reading between the lines.’

Rose rolled her eyes at him, looking half-exasperated.

‘This feels like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ she complained. ‘Why don’t you just use the sonic to scan for whatever’s wrong?’

‘Best not get used to using the sonic as a crutch, Rose,’ he replied loftily. ‘Never know when you’ll get caught without it.’

‘You always get caught without it! Or you drop it, or it gets taken from you when we’re arrested, or –’

‘Oi!’

‘So why can’t we just use it while we still have it on us and save time? Least once we sort this mess out we can go have something to eat…’

‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’

‘Busy not having lunch at the Savoy or having its questions answered.’

He scowled. ‘You could’ve eaten at the pub.’

‘And be treated like a second class citizen? No ta.’

‘You’re not a second class citizen – strictly speaking, at this point in time, women aren’t citizens at all – ow!’ she had elbowed him hard in the shoulder. ‘What was that for, I was just telling the truth! About your species’ history, not mine! Back on G –’

The word caught at the back of his throat, causing him to choke suddenly and as effectively as if someone had wrapped their hands around his throat and squeezed.

He hadn’t spoken the name of his home out loud since he had lost it, but standing here, arguing with Rose, for a moment he had completely forgotten and it had almost slipped out.

How did she do that?

He mentally shook himself, not wanting to draw any more attention to his lapse than the obvious, and cleared his throat authoritatively. ‘Point is, the sonic wouldn’t do us any good.’

‘Why not?’

‘Cos I already tried it when we left the counting house and it didn’t work,’ he admitted, crossing his arms defensively and determinedly avoiding her gaze.

‘So why didn’t you just say so?’

His felt warmth spreading from his cheeks to his ears and down his neck. Why was it that most of the time he felt like he and Rose co-existed in a relationship of perfect understanding, and then there were moments – becoming worryingly more frequent – where he found himself babbling like a school boy trying to stumble through a recitation of the Triumphs of Rassilon?

She would shake her head at him like he was mad one, he’d try to figure out exactly how the thoughts from his brain had become such utter jibberish on the way to his mouth. Then she would give him this bizarre, sort of fond look that had his stomach feeling like it was filled with flutterwings and every rational thought he wanted to impress her with just vanished.

Rather like what was happening right now.

She was watching him, an amused quirk to lips and a knowing look in her eyes, like she had a pert comment on her tongue, just ready to be wielded against him.

‘Not a word,’ he ordered.

‘Never,’ she promised.

Nine hundred years of time and space, and no one had ever made him feel so…

_Human_ , he supposed.

‘S’not even my fault, really,’ he went on quickly. ‘Whatever altered the reality at both the counting house and Scotland Yard to bring those characters into being, didn’t leave behind any energy trace that the sonic can pick up. Either it’s too subtle, or it’s not an energy type I’ve programmed it to pick up.’ He paused, considering. ‘Maybe both. Probably both.’

When they reached Fleet Street, where the Doctor set about bounding from street corner to street corner, buying up several different newspaper publications. For some reason, he always had 19th century change stashed in his pockets.

While he flipped through the periodicals, he kept an eye on Rose as she wandered, examining the shop window displays and other curiosities the past had to offer. She paused in front of a vendor selling chapbooks with exaggerated covers, earning a surprised look and an oily smile from the vendor and he grinned.

‘You know that’s the closest thing these people have to _Playboy_ , right?’ he teased, sidling up beside her with his arms full of paper.

Rose’s fingers recoiled. _‘_ What?!’

He gave the colourful titles a disapproving stare. ‘Penny dreadfuls are about as substantial as those bodice rippers your mum reads.’ He transferred all the papers to one arm and offered her the other. ‘Sensationalist drivel sold to sexually repressed, working class men. Not really something a woman of breeding would be caught dead with.’

‘Oh, now I’m a woman of breeding?’ she teased. ‘How boring.’

‘You chose that outfit,’ he retorted. 

‘So, what’s the word on the street?’ she asked as he motioned for her to follow him down an alley.

‘Tell you in a mo,’ he assured her, before whirling around and placing Rose behind him. ‘Who the hell are you and why are you following us?’

The man who had been watching them make their way around Fleet Street froze, surprised at having been caught out. Evidently he wasn’t used to it.

The vagrant was as dirty and grimy as any other resident of London’s poor, his face mostly shadowed by a worn beaver felt hat. Sallow of complexion and small of stature, he was only a little taller than Rose, but the Doctor had no illusions that that made him less dangerous. The man’s entire countenance radiated barely contained energy

‘Who say’s I’m following you, governor?’ he returned, his accent almost as thick as Rose’s but just shy of convincing.

‘I do – your pipe tobacco’s got a particular scent to it, and it’s been following us since Scotland Yard.’

The man’s drawn expression vanished, and he straightened up.

‘Commendable that you noticed,’ the vagrant said, his accent suddenly changing into a posher, upper class drawl.

‘Commendable or not, knock it off – and tell that friend of yours lurking about in the shadows if he doesn’t come out, there’ll be trouble.’

Rose’s head whipped around as the aforementioned man melted away from the building, using a cane to help him get over to them. He was unusually tanned for London climate, his dark hair and moustache neatly trimmed and blue-green eyes surveying the Doctor warily as he approached. He was taller than his friend by an inch or two, with a whimsical mouth and straight nose. Although he was dressed like an upper-class gentleman, it was his soldier’s bearing that had drawn the Doctor’s attention even before the vagrant man’s smell.

‘Keenly observed, my good man,’ the stranger said, not seeming at all put-out by having been caught. To their surprise, he reached up and removed a bulbous prosthetic nose and used his hat to mop away some of the grime from his face. ‘I foresee that disguises won’t be much use around you.’

‘And I foresee that introductions are in order,’ the Doctor returned.

‘Yes – excuse my appalling manners,’ the vagrant said. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr John Watson.’ Rose made a choking, snorting noise of disbelief. ‘And, in the interest of keeping things cordial we would be grateful if, in addition to your identities, you provided us the answers to a few questions.’

‘Sherlock Holmes?’ the Doctor snorted. ‘Pull the other one. I’ve met Sherlock Holmes and you, mate, are not him.’

The once-scruffy man gave him a look of bored consideration. ‘Are you quite certain? I would never forget such a distinctive face – or ears, as it were.’

‘Watch it!’

‘Er, Doctor?’ Rose piped up, eyes still wide as she stared at the moustachioed man in disbelief.

‘What?’

‘I think this is another one of those… _mistaken identity_ situations.’

He stared at her in confusion for a moment, and then at the self-proclaimed Holmes and Watson. He was unfamiliar with the face, but judging by her reaction, she knew it.

Ah, another celebrity lookalike, was it?

He grinned. ‘Fantastic.’


End file.
